Stu Jenks: Fezziwig Photography, Music, and Writing

"An Argument Against Photography" (c) 2008

"An Argument Against Photography" © May 2008 Stu Jenks

    [The two images are from Bard, New Mexico, a 21st Century ghost-town, along Interstate 40]

    "When you come to a fork in the road, take it" - Yogi Berra.

    I'm done. Stick a fork in me. I'm toast. Fuck it.

    My dream of having a career as a financially viable Visual Artist ended at 4:45 on Sunday, May 11th, 2008, when I closed my studio door and left to hike up Tumamoc Hill. I had just spent two days in my studio trying to sell my Fine Art prints. I was my normal cordial self, telling stories about my images, polite to all. And I didn't sell one print the whole weekend (With the exception of selling a print that I had made a tentative arrangement to sell, to someone who already had the print in her possession. She brought a check. That doesn't count.) Not one fucking print. I was selling my prints for half of what the market value in Tucson will bear, for that's what we do at the Open Studio Tours. Sell stuff a bit cheaper, cash and carry, without gallery rep fees. Anyway, I was pissed. Am still angry and hurt but doing OK I suppose. Sometimes a bad thing ends up being a good thing, and vice versa. I was on the verge of buying a new long fast $1700 Canon lens but then realized that at some point I have to say to myself, 'Stu, this has failed. Stop throwing money down a shit hole.'
    So I'm done. I put in ten good years to make it as a Fine Art Photographer. I have failed. It is what it is.
    [And I'm not quitting simply because of one bad weekend. No. Below is my lengthy argument against continuing my journey at having an Art career. With a little history, and some fun and not-so-fun facts. But it's all true. No pulled punches. OK, a couple glancing blows to protect some people, but mostly full force. And don't expect correct grammar and tight writing here. It's not a vision statement or a story with arc. It's a rant.]
    I began this dream, this committed effort to have a career as a Fine Artist, in the 1996. Actually I got a BFA in Studio Art in 1979, but the hard-core push began in the late 1990's. Went back to school and learned how to print Black and White. Use the Toole Shed darkroom to print the prints. Had a plan. Here's what it was.
    I'd build a large portfolio. I'd get a rep or two or three. I'd find patrons to buy my work. I'd do the work. I'd take the images. I'd increase my resume with lots of juried shows. I'd make a photo book or two, if I could get an agent. I'd sell large and small Fine Art prints, for large and small amounts of money. I'd sell the limited use rights of my images to others, not through stock houses but through myself and art representatives. I hoped to make enough money to someday quit the day job. I'm talking about making net, between 20 and 30 thousand a year. Not a lot of coin but enough for me to live on and to make more flame spiral images. Enough to continue the Work. I figured I could probably do that, if I continued to work hard, find representation, made images that were original and Stu-like and get lucky along the way. I also figure I would have to risk some and go into a little bit of debt. And at the very least, I hoped to break even, if I couldn't make it a full time job.
    I began making the images. I built the portfolio, got a rep or two, had some patrons, increased the resume, sold quite a bit but not a lot, made a name for myself worldwide with my mysterious images of flame spirals and archetypal symbols.
    And went into more and more debt.
    In good years in the past ten years, I made $3000 to $5000 gross a year, in print sales, limited rights usage for CD covers, book covers, corporate logos, etc., but my expense were between $5000 and $8000 a year, in film, paper, ink, studio space, lab fees, framing, gas, lodging, new equipment, etc. Bottom Line: I was going into about $2000 to $3000 a year into debt on my credit cards.
    Now, I'm over $25,000 in debt to my plastic. A quarter of my income that I get from the day job, (as a licensed substance abuse counselor and treatment assessor,) goes toward the interest and the principle. And sales and user rights have diminished over the last three years. Last year I grossed $3523.15 in art business.   
    Also, I'm not a trust fund baby, a husband of someone who is supporting me, or a retired person with $500,000 in investments, where I live off the interest. I make $20,000 a year after taxes as a counselor.
    You may ask, 'Why don't you get a better paying job?'
    Answer: Because I really don't think it's a good idea. I've prayed about it a lot and the answer is always 'stay'. I'm a good counselor, a good treatment assessor, a good group facilitator and plus I have health insurance and benefits worth $6000 a year. Sure, my passion for the Field of Addictions has waned some since the late 1980's but it's hard to get a job that pays $30,000 plus gross in Tucson. We are a poor city. And I was trying to eventually get out of the field and work as a visual artist, you know.
    You may ask, 'Why don't you get a job as a photographer, shooting weddings or corporate stuff?'
    Answer: Because I'm not a photographer. I just use a camera to record and make images that are Fine Art to me. Images with some mystery, with some wonder, and sometimes with some edge. Printed on archival paper. Suitable for framing or to be sold for limited use to others. And by saying I'm not a photographer, I'm not being falsely modest. I shoot the occasional wedding for friends but I'm not very good at that (Even though they would tell you otherwise.) And if I were a professional wedding photographer, I would be an active alcoholic before the year was out. And I find straight photography quite boring. I don't want to shoot building facades, and smiling Captains of Industry for a living! Fuck that! And I don't read books about famous photographers, nor stand in awe of the Greats, be they artists or musicians or writers (OK, Dylan, and Cockburn, and Gabriel I listen to in awe.) I like my Arbus and my Adams, but I think Winogrand is overrated and Witkin is a creep. I don't use strobes or light bags, nor wish to ever learn. I could give a flying fuck about color temps. I just use the camera as a tool. If I could use a pencil and paper, I would use that.
    Which bring me to my argument against photography. Not only for me but for others as well perhaps.
    If you want to make a living being a photographer, forget it. OK, don't forget it but it's going to be a very difficult climb in this day and age. I know two pros, good guys, who make a living off of selling stock photos, and specialty weather images, and they working hard, doing jobs other photo jobs around town but they are struggling, and they have over 50 years experience between them. I know another photographer in Los Angeles. Great guy. Great artist as both an Fine Art photographer and as a pro. Shot as a Unit Photographer for Television for a while, but couldn't get enough work to survive. He's now working as a line cook again and going back to school in his forties to get a teaching certificate to teach high school kids. I know another photographer who used to make good money shooting airplanes but that job moved away, and she has now gone back to school to learn graphic design, but is having a hell of a time finding work in that field too. And these are all hard working, very good people, who know how to play well with others.
    Oh, and about getting paid. It's gotten worse and worse, getting money from corporation and companies for commercial work and for art work. Most take the philosophy of ‘Buy Low-Sell High' into their negotiations with pro photographers, artists and graphics people. Now, many only hired young kids right out of school, for they know they are hungry and they can get them cheap. And pro photographers, artists and graphics people are now doing twice as much work as they used to do, for less and less money. It's a goddamn shame.
    Add to that the 21st Century’s overarching world trend toward people not wanting to pay for anything, anymore. We live in a Time of Entitlement. As Gillian Welch sang in her song “Everything Is Free” about people ripping off musicians, ‘Someone hit the big score/They figured it out/That we're gonna do it anyway/Even if doesn't pay.’ People steal music off of piers on the Internet, and don't pay for it. I've been ripped off by some musicians in South America who took some low res jpegs off my website and made albums covers from them. And they promised money but it never came. But that doesn't bother me that much. The price of doing business.
    What chaps my ass is no one wants to pay real money for my fine art giclee or my gelatin silver prints or my crystal archives, or for the use of my images for commercial ventures. (With some exception of course. I have had dealings with some good business people but they are few and far between.) They want it for cheap. I was selling 13 x 19 inch giclees, on good paper, at my studio this weekend for $110 (which includes tax, so that gross $100 for me. Net maybe $50 a print. Maybe.) Retail they sell for $200 to $350 (and they have in the past.) But people groaned at the price and it keeps getting worse, year after year.
    I can blame the economy but I don't think that alone is entirely the truth. These people are what I call Ritz Crackers, low class white people with a lot of money. They can afford it. Hell, a few people this weekend went out of their way to impress me on the future and past vacations to Europe. They got the cash. They liked the images. They just want it for free or cheap.
    So finally, here's my final argument against photography as a viable career. The last nail.
    Everyone has a camera now, and most people can take reasonable pictures. My elderly mother does OK with a disposable, for Christ’s sake. Everyone can take their jpegs (or ones they've pulled off the Web) and put them on their own desktop. And they are happy with that. Or corporate guys get their secretary to got out and take some pictures for them. Or they hire hungry kids. Or they low-ball me. Anyway. It's easy now. Your brother in law can shoot your wedding and they'll look pretty good.

    So those are my arguments against photography now. For me. Others may want to shoot calendars of cute animals or do porno for website, or shoot weddings and rip off brides, or take table scraps from The Man. Not me. No thank you.
    Oh, and a final thought. You may have seen someone who is making the kind of Art that I affectionately call 'Nightmares on a Wall.' (You know what I mean. Butt-ugly shit but it has an impressive rap behind it,) and that someone is apparently making a living off the Nightmares, or they are trying to convince you that they are making a living off it, and they don't have a full time teaching position, and I'll show you someone who has a mysterious source of income that they aren't talking about. Perhaps a well-healed husband or wife. Maybe a trust fund. Maybe a rich dad. (I know a mediocre stoner photographer whose Dad has budgeted a quarter of a million dollars for his career. $250,000. And if it weren't for a couple of talented graphic people color-correcting his transparencies, his stuff would look like complete shit. And he is publishing his third book now and is represented by one of the biggest Art agencies in New York.) Maybe an early retirement account. But they aren't making it off the Art. They are making it somewhere else. And I can count on one hand from that large group of artists, who fall into that category, who actually admit to having big money behind the scenes. The others' smugness disgusts me. Also, you'll find musicians, and writers who fall into this category as well. And some of these fucks say what I'm doing is a 'hobby', or that I shouldn't expect to make any money. God damn easy for them to say that. (And word to the wise: Don't call what I do a 'hobby' to my face. You may get punched if my blood sugar is low. Then again you won't have the chance now, for Elvis is leaving the building.)
    So friends and neighbors, and strangers on the Web, I'm done. I'm not going to spend good money after bad anymore. I'm not going to buy the great $1700 lens that I want. Makes no sense. I'll still shoot some, but not like I have in the past. I'll still make some prints but not very many now. I'll let my resume go stale and my portfolio grow old. What's in the box will be what I have to sell, except for custom orders of larger prints and those will be for sale for the full market value, taken from my fotoQuote program. No more screaming deals. I'll shoot some roller derby, but not as much. Maybe none at all. (Too much expense on ink and paper and time. It's a labor of love but I end up feeling resentful, for Tucson Roller Derby pays the musicians that play at halftime. Why not pay the photographers too? Doesn't matter now.) No more weddings. (Oh, wait a minute. I don't shoot weddings anyway.) No more cheap CD deals for musicians (One in particular that comes to mine is a player who jumps from artist to artist so he can get images for cheap. Then again, he stopped asking me for images a long time ago, when I started asking for what I was worth.) No more cold call book submissions to large and small publishing houses. If I do a book, I'll pay for it with my mother's inheritance after she dies which, given her manic narcissistic energy, won't be for another ten years or more.) No more hopes for making twenty grand a year. I'll keep the studio at BR 549 for I need someplace to store my stuff, and $188 a month for storage isn't a bad deal. Plus I can practice my mandolin and my synth there, at night.
    Which bring me to the music.
    I will continue to play music. I'm going to buy a new Apple laptop soon so I can record music again. (My old Apple hasn't enough RAM or speed to do what I need it to do anymore.) I will continue to learn and compose instrumental ambient pieces on the mandolin and the synthesizer, along with the odd song with lyrics about lost tribes and sad love. I will have no hope of having a career as a musician, but I will try and work at becoming a better player. I will hopefully play live more, by myself and with other people. I will play the mandolin and make my calluses thicker and harder. I will play the synthesizer and make the long sustains and releases longer and sweeter. I will continue to try and make a little mystery and beauty in the world, but it'll be audio not visual. Mostly.
    I'm not going to be like Marcel Duchamp and give up Art to play chess. But I'm going to give up the Art career so I can take my girlfriend out to a better restaurant and hopefully within ten years get out of this mountain of debt. (Oh wait. I don't have a girlfriend.)
    And I will play music. And sure, I'll take some pictures. I guess. I don't know. But I won't be spending a shit load of cash on ink, paper, gas, and new equipment to make some hoop dances in the desert that no one pays for. And please don't get me wrong. I have no sense of entitlement here. It's just that photography and what I've done in the past with a camera costs a lot of money. It's not like making ceramics in which you can buy dry clay for $50 a ton. Photographically creating what I do just cost too much money now, and the huge plastic debt I've incurred has taken too much of a psychic toll on me. I'm beginning to feel sad about it. I'm sure I'll grieve it harder in a few days. But right not, along with the anger, I feel some relief. Like my old country doctor back in North Carolina used to say, "It's like hitting yourself over the head with a hammer. It feels so good when you stop."

    Yesterday, when I left the studio, I hiked up Tumamoc Hill, a beautiful little mountain minutes from my studio.
    I didn't take my camera with me.
    I took my mandolin instead.

Everything is Free
(Gillian Welch and David Rawlings)

Everything is free now,
That's what they say.
Everything I ever done,
Gotta give it away.
Someone hit the big score.
They figured it out,
That we're gonna do it anyway,
Even if doesn't pay.

I can get a tip jar,
Gas up the car,
And try to make a little change
Down at the bar.

Or I can get a straight job,
I've done it before.
I never minded working hard,
It's who I'm working for.

(Chorus)

Every day I wake up,
Hummin' a song.
But I don't need to run around,
I just stay home.

And sing a little love song,
My love, to myself.
If there's something that you want to hear,
You can sing it yourself.

'Cause everything is free now,
That what I say.
No one's got to listen to
The words in my head.
Someone hit the big score,
And I figured it out,
That we're gonna do it anyway,
Even if doesn't pay.

    [Final thought: What I’m doing isn’t a Big Surrender where I ask God for direction and help as I plunge into the unknown. I’m giving up. I quit. But if a Cosmic Muffin, or a Good God, or a generous Rich Person puts $25,000 into my Paypal account so I can get out of debt, I’ll reconsider. However, I won’t be holding my breath.]

"Ventana Canyon Time Travel" (c) 2008

"Ventana Canyon Time Travel" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

[Taken last Winter while hiking in the snow in Ventana Canyon, just north of where I live in Tucson. Finished this morning before I head down to my studio for Day Two of the Spring Open Studio Tour. The blurs were done in camera. The colors were done in CS2. Part of my ongoing Time Travel series.]

"Ms. Spyder's Tea Party" (c) 2008

"Ms. Spyder's Tea Party, Flam Chen, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks and Flam Chen

    [Two images of Paul, Nadia and the Flam Chen Troupe performing 'Ms. Spyder's Tea Party' at Nimbus Brewery, on April 28th, 2008. Not many good images that night, from me. I really need to invest in that $1600 long fast Canon lens. I hate to go more into debt, but I may have to, if I'm going to stay viable in all of this. All of this photography thing.
    I didn't intend to be a photographer. Really. I was just an artist who wanted to make circles and spirals and show them around. Capture the mystery of the night and all of that. Photography seemed like the best way to do it. Now, I want to make more night images but with people in them too, and my lens glass isn't long enough or fast enough. Maybe I'll just go to the BR-549 Studios and hang some batik from a rock instead. Nah. I love the fabric work but I still have these images in my head that need to come out.
    Sometimes I wish I was a trust fund baby. I'd be a great trust fund kid. Generous with the extra cash. Openly grateful to the dead grandparent that pays for my rent, my ink, my paper, my camera, my food. Guess I'll still have to keep going to the day job after all. Fuck. Well, life could be much worse. I could be living in Burma.
    And I got a couple of OK images that night, I suppose. I quite like the intimacy and strength in the image of Nadia and Paul, spinning poi. And the graininess of the Woo Shoo poi shot doesn't bother me at all.
    Thank God, Paul and Nadia get what I'm trying to do, namely to help build a bit of artistic community and cooperation, in a time of greed and selfishness. We'll all continue to work hard and perhaps with luck, we'll make a bit more coin then we are right now. Maybe a lot of coin if we time it right and are very fortunate. Who knows. Bottom line: The work has the be the primary pleasure.]

The Art of Julie Unruh

The Art of Julie Unruh

[Paintings: "Emilio" (c) 2007, and "Red Hook Inside And Out" (c) 2007 Julie Uhruh. A wonderful person and fine painter, Julie hails from Brooklyn, New York. Go to Julie's website to see more.]

"Thank You, North Carolina"

"Thank You, North Carolina"

[Thank you, to Mike C., and to all the good folk in the Tarheel State, who gave Senator Barack Obama his impressive victory tonight, in the North Carolina Presidential Primary. Thank You to the state, where I kissed my first girl, saw my first Monet in person at the North Carolina Museum of Art, heard my first live concert (namely the Low Spark tour by Traffic), graduated barely with a fine art degree from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. The state where I loved watching the Tarheels play basketball on the Pilot Life Broadcasting Network (both as a confused child and as a stoned college kid), where I first fell in love with her, and then with another her and then another her. Thank you, North Carolina. Thank you.

Right now, it's 56% to 42%, with 62% of the votes in. North Carolina, you are making me cry tonight. Crying tears of joy. And Mike? Get well soon.]

"Desert Shacks, Marana, Arizona" (c) 2008

"Desert Shacks, Marana, Arizona" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

    [This image along with the one of the intersection of Orange Grove and Ina Roads was taken from a Cessna last Saturday. My first flight in a small aircraft. Reminded me of piloting a small boat in choppy seas. Was a lot of fun but I can now understand why some folks don't like to fly.]

"From Lively to Sin Vacas" (c) 2008

"From Lively to Sin Vacas" © May 2008 Stu Jenks

    [Images from top to bottom: "The Last Chair, Lively, Virginia", "The Flowering Oaks, Lively, Virginia, "Ancient Oak, Lively, Virginia", "Harriman, Tennessee", "Minnie Pearl's Hat, Ryman Auditorium, Nashville, Tennessee", "Mary at the Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas", "The Very Large Array, New Mexico", "Panoramic Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas", & "Cattle and The VLA"]

        We had just had a perfectly nice little box lunch at an Interstate rest stop in the Valley of Virginia. No harsh words. No crazy comments. No imagined slights from us. Then, as my mother was getting a scarf out of the car, preparing to walk over and get back into the Penske truck, she said to me.
    "You know, after Pamela was born I had a miscarriage and I fought to have another child, so remember that, the next time you get upset with me!"
    I shrugged my shoulders, gave Annie a crooked smile with a slight shake of the head and walked my elderly mother back to the truck.
    And this was Day Two of what turned out to be a week-long journey, driving my mother and her things to an independent living place, near my home in Tucson, Arizona.

    I thought it would be fun, driving Miss Daisy across the country. It was anything but. When Annie arrived, ten days before we were going to leave for Arizona, she was prepared to do a lot of work, packing my mother up. What she didn't know was that in the months leading up to the move, Mom hadn't done a thing. When I arrived three days before we departed Virginia, Annie had done an amazing job, in spite of everything.
    Even though I had been to The River to visit at Christmas, I had no idea how much my mother had begun to fade. She started out the day as a woman in her eighties and ended the day as a six-year-old child. When friends would ask me, on the phone, how my mother was, I would say she was 'petulant'.
    But my mother’s old, and it's not her fault that she has become more of a spoiled brat. She has always been this way. But now, she was ruder, more insulting, and more manipulative that I've ever seen her. She’s never been one to apologize or try and walk in anyone else's shoes, but now it was all or nothing, black or white, good or bad, with no gray in between. And the All was All Her. We either loved her or hated her, and she wasn't shy to say anything now. [Like she ever was.] And even though it was never her intent to be hurtful, that didn't mean it didn't hurt. [Whether a truck runs over you by accident or on purpose, you've still been run over by a truck.] Add to that the entitlement issues in her DNA and the occasional histrionic tears and you've got a nightmare for Annie and I.

    Miraculously, we got the 26-foot Penske truck on the road on Friday Afternoon, with Mother and Annie following in Mom's Buick Le Sabre. We made it as far as Charlottesville, Virginia that night.
    Besides the little adventure caused by me getting the truck stuck in the parking lot of the motel, (I embedded the rear end into the pavement while trying to go up a little hill. Had to get a tow truck to wince it free), the first day's drive was uneventful and rather pleasant for me. For me. Not for Annie. For Annie had Mom in the car with her, for hours. After Day One, Annie and I traded off my mother. Day Two, Mom rode with me. Day Three, she rode with Annie, etc. That way, we each had every other day without the presence of my mother.
    When Mom doesn’t get her way, either she is wrong, you are wrong, or all of us are wrong. There is no simple difference of opinion in my mother's world. If you disagree with her, you hate her. If you are angry at some behavior of hers, you hate her. If you ask for something that she doesn't want to give, you hate her. I wish I could say this was new, but it isn't. It's just more so.
    Also, Mary puts people into two groups, those she considers family and those she doesn't. If you are considered family, then you are obligated to do what ever she asks. You are her servant, her peasant, her slave. And if you refuse, politely or no, she gets mad and either insults you or tries to shame you into doing what she wants. Again, not new. Just more desperate and pitiful these days. (Then again, my mother’s ancestors did own slaves and she was raised by black servants. Perhaps I expect too much.)

    The manipulations and criticism started long before we left Lively, Virginia.
    By the time we reached Tennessee, Mom was saying she wanted to go back home to Virginia or go to Raleigh and live with my sister, Pamela. (Not an option, now or ever.)

         
    In Nashville, she thought she was in Richmond, Virginia. Truly. She thought we were on Broad Street, seconds after we had left the Ryman. Thought the Mosque was just up ahead. ‘What the fuck,’ I silently mouthed to Annie in the rear view mirror, as we drove back to the Interstate.

    In Arkansas, she tried to jump out of the car. We affectionately call it The Arkansas Incident. We were driving slow and it was at night, so no one got hurt.
    By Oklahoma, we couldn't stand to even think of eating dinner with my mother. We prepared food for her to eat and brought it to her room at sundown, and then Annie and I went out and had our own dinner.
    I took some pictures of Mom at the Cadillac Ranch near Amarillo, Texas that turned out to be somewhat iconic. Thanks God for that.

    By Santa Rosa, New Mexico, she was weeping in the hallway of the motel, saying we were abandoning her.
    The Very Large Array was fun for Annie and I, and we even had one lighthearted moment with Mom. The sustained winds were 40 miles per hour that day and as we were walking Mother to the Visitors Center, one of us on each arm so she wouldn't blow away, Mary said, with a bit of wonder in her voice,
    "Son, you are really taking me on an adventure."
    We all three laughed. The one and only time that would happen in 2500 miles.

    I could say more. I probably should have said less. Bottom Line: Mary is all settled in at Sin Vacas, an upscale retirement village, where all the street names are in Spanish for nutty things. ('Street Without Sin', 'Street Without Denial', 'Street Without Danger'. Mom lives on Calle Sin Envidia: 'Street Without Envy'. And Rancho Sin Vacas, the gated community where the elderly village is, means Ranch Without Cows.) She’s making some new friends and going to church. She's slowly learning how to get to the bank and to the grocery store. And she’s even saying thank you to me when I come up to help connect the computer or put together a lamp (Even though I know her 'thank yous' really mean 'please don't leave me all alone'.)
   
    Mom and I don't really get along. Haven't really for years. I tolerate her and she probably tolerates me too.   
    But one piece of advice or rather a warning to all.
    Don't say to me "You're being such a good son."
    I'm not. And if you say it to my face, I’m probably going to get pissed off.
    I didn't move Mom because I'm being a good son. I did it because Mom begged me to move her to Arizona, and that we had few options left, for Mary can't really take care of herself anymore without help.
    I told Mom a number of times, that I really didn’t think it was a really good idea to leave 100 friends in Virginia behind, to live near her son and her 92-year-old sister and her son's ex-girlfriend in Arizona. But we have a saying in my family: "Mary does whatever Mary wants to do." Her so-called friends in Virginia, most of them rich, white, arrogant fucks, call Mom ‘a force of nature.’ They are not complementing her.
    No, I'm not a good son.
    I'm not doing this because I want to, or that I even think it's the right thing for her to live in Tucson, but our choice are limited now.
    Retirement places in Virginia are much more expensive there than in Arizona.
    My sister Pamela lives in Raleigh, in the Old Home Place, but she is fighting cancer and is really in no condition to be around Mom, in a number of ways.
    It's by default that I'm doing this, have done this.
    I'm not a good son.
    I'm just the person who’s doing what needs to be done.
    That's all.
    If I had my way, Mary would be living in Virginia somewhere.
    But you rarely gets your way if you are with my mother.
    It's Mom's way or the highway, pretty much.
    Even though she would deny that.

    “Your hair is so beautiful,” she says.   
    “You’re as handsome as your father was,” she says.
    Mom is over the top with her compliments now. I’m repairing a chest-of-drawers in her new apartment. She’s following me around.
    She may be a bit sun-downy these days. She may be her normal Narcissistic self, but she isn’t stupid. She knows she fucked up. She knows Annie and I are pretty tired of her shit.
    Phase One is done: Mary and her stuff have been moved across the country.
    Phase Two is mostly done: Unpacking Mary’s shit and getting her settled in.
    Now, on to Phase Three: Maintaining Mom in Tucson.
    Once-a-week visits and occasional chats on the phone is the plan. My plan. Her plan would be for me to be at her beck and call, 24 / 7 / 365. That ain’t going to happen.

    The view from her balcony is fabulous. City lights in the distance at night. An arroyo filled with birds and their songs during the day. I close my eyes and hear the quails’ sing. I feel sad. Mom doesn’t even notice the beauty right in front of her. I open the sliding glass door and reenter her apartment. She yells something at me from the bedroom. I can’t hear what she is saying. I don’t really care.

"Harriman, Tennessee" (c) 2008

"Harriman, Tennessee" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks
[An homage to a Blake Hines' photograph]

"Alkali Flats, White Sands National Monument, New Mexico" (c) 2008

"Alkali Flats, White Sands National Monument, New Mexico" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

    [This image was shot, using Ilford SFX 200 film, the poor man's infrared. Sure, I have a $1300 Canon digital camera but was I going to take it out onto those dunes? Not on your life. My old Pentax with its 28 mm lens did just fine. And even though some fine sand grains did get inside my camera, I was able to fix the scratches on the negs in Photoshop.
    After hiking a couple hours in the heat, wind and light, the true highlight that day at White Sands was seeing a family of Chiricahua Apaches playing in the dunes. The whole extended family was there. Mom, Dad, Grandma and Grandpa, and three young children, the kids rolling happily sideways down the dunes, laughing all the way. The parents and grandparents were laughing too. I was smiling as well. The Dad had a Washington Redskins sweatshirt on. I'm not making this up.
    Mostly, I felt happy just seeing their joy. I know a little of the Chiricahuas' history, that only a few survived the Indian Wars and its horrible aftermath, but some have since flourished, to a degree, living on the Mescalero Apache Reservation, east of White Sands. Beautiful mountains, lots of hunting, fine skiing, and a spacious resort to boot. They've worked hard and gotten lucky with the gambling I suppose. I'm happy for the Chiricahuas, and happy to see that family frolicking in the dunes that day. But I still wish the U.S. Government would consider giving some of the Chiricahua Mountains back to them. It was their home, after all, and I'm guessing, still feels like their home in the hearts of many of the members of the tribe. If they took Virginia away from my family after The Civil War, I'd miss it too.]

Hoop Dancing: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter One: "The Wisteria Prayer Tower"

Hoop Dancing: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter One:
“The Wisteria Prayer Tower, Sonoran Desert, Arizona" © 1999, 2008

    I'm here alone tonight with a small hoop made of wisteria, the vines a gift from Mary Ann’s backyard. I twisted them into a circle and wrapped the hoop with a battery-powered string of clear Christmas lights. The hoop and lights sit at the base of a saguaro cactus. I open the shutter and walk back to a nearby shelter. It's a simple structure. Just four posts and a crude roof made of two by fours, spaced a few inches apart, to give some shade from the midday sun. A couple of benches too. From this short distance, I can see the glow of the hoop, and I begin to drift off into memory, thinking of a night under this shelter, just last year.
    [It has just begun to rain. We've had a great dinner at Caruso's, celebrating her birthday. It's Monsoon season and we decided to go look for storms. We found a big one. The rain's coming down in sheets. The shelter proves little relief from the storm but we don't care. I gaze upon her silk green dress, not completely soaked, sticking to her beautiful body, her nipples showing through the fabric. Mary Ann and I are very wet. In many ways. We laugh. I press her against one of the shelter’s supports and kiss her deeply again. She kisses me back hard and makes a little moan. I feel a stirring. It's really pouring. I hardly notice.]
    I blink and sigh. Back to tonight, this moment, this time. I leave the shelter and walk back to the hoop and the saguaro. The glow of Tucson's city lights shines over the mountains to the East. I gingerly approach my Rollei. Ever so slowly and evenly, I advance the film, with the shutter still open. I turn the knob a third of a turn, then another third, then another, until I'm relatively sure I've drawn the film through at least two or three frames. I then close the shutter.
    I consider another exposure. I open the shutter again. I slowly take my hands away from the camera, and step back from the tripod. I walk toward the shelter. I then take myself out of the moment, out of this night, and daydream myself back to that night, last year, with Mary Ann. The one with the hard rain, with that never-ending kiss, with that wet silk green dress.